


Paint Strokes

by squiddz



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is horny for the pornstache, Facials, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Over the top descriptions of facial hair, no i do not take criticism, that's about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24128386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiddz/pseuds/squiddz
Summary: They'd met at a local cafe earlier. Crowley had been jabbering on about his plans for sabotaging the construction of the M25 orbital over a cup of coffee, and Aziraphale had not listened to a single word, transfixed instead by the strip of red hair that adorned the demon's top lip.--A ficlet written for the GO-Events Discord server "Name That Author" event
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 113
Collections: Name That Author Round 3: After Dark





	Paint Strokes

**Author's Note:**

> The brief was to write a 500 word ficlet based on the prompt "I hope this doesn't awaken anything in me."
> 
> I... don't know what to say about this really. Many thanks to IsleofSolitude for the title suggestion!

Aziraphale hurried along the streets of Soho with the awkward shuffle of someone trying to walk quickly without drawing attention to themselves. Once inside the refuge of the bookshop, the door locked itself behind him while the blinds dutifully rolled down and blacked out the windows. After a spot of perfunctory comfort pacing, Aziraphale at last retreated to the back of his shop and settled into his desk chair.

It was certainly nowhere out of the ordinary to require some extended alone time after meeting with Crowley. But there was something quite different about today… 

With both excitement and shame swirling in the pit of his stomach, Aziraphale slid his palm over the straining fabric between his legs, eyelids fluttering shut. He undid his fly and tried to picture his wily adversary as he took himself in hand.

They'd met at a local cafe earlier. Crowley had been jabbering on about his plans for sabotaging the construction of the M25 orbital over a cup of coffee, and Aziraphale had not listened to a single word, transfixed instead by the strip of red hair that adorned the demon's top lip.

It wasn't often that Crowley chose to sport any kind of facial hair, so Aziraphale reasoned that he was merely fascinated by the novelty of it, distracted by a deviation from the norm.

Then Crowley took a sip of his coffee, leaving the bottom edge of that copper fringe outlined in white foam. Aziraphale had stared helplessly as Crowley's tongue swept through russet strands and gathered up the froth, leaving just a hint of a pale smear on his lips. Another flash of pink as his tongue darted back out to liberate a spot of cream still clinging to the hairs at the corner of his mouth. Finally, Crowley gave it all a wipe with the back of his hand, and Aziraphale felt about ready to discorporate.

"Are you alright, angel?" Crowley had asked.

Aziraphale had responded rather intelligently by nearly spilling his own coffee.

Now, as he stroked himself in his chair, he imagined what else Crowley might lick out of that lip fuzz. Maybe one day he could have Crowley on his knees in front of him, lapping up Aziraphale's spend as it dripped from auburn whiskers. Perhaps he'd run a finger through it and slide it in his mouth, desperate to savour every last drop.

Aziraphale wondered what it might be like if Crowley were to press a kiss along the inside of his thigh, what it might feel like as that furry lip grazed along his skin, tracing over increasingly sensitive areas until he nuzzled right under--

Aziraphale's hand stilled. His eyes drifted to a desk drawer, the one where he kept his supplies for restoring all his old furniture. He pulled it open and rummaged around between old rags and jars of polish until he found his prize.

Wrapping tentative fingers around a wooden handle, he carefully picked up an old stiff-bristled paintbrush.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://heavens-bookshop.tumblr.com)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ask Nicely](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24131605) by [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock)




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